


Baby, You're an Oasis

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Smut, and has extremely fond memories of Sting's gold lamé speedo, author watched the David Lynch movie at a formative age, gratuitous references to Dune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: In which Keith puts his hair up and it hits Shiro where he lives.Tarsia is hot and arid. Stepping from the climate-controlled interior of the Castle of Lions feels like being hit, though the air is still and unmoving. Their paladin suits are flexible and can adjust to the most extreme conditions, but even so, Shiro can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead after a few moments in the Tarsian sun.





	Baby, You're an Oasis

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists for two reasons: I was stuck in the world's worst training and needed something to keep myself awake, which led to speculating about what Keith putting his hair up might do to Shiro, and here we are. Fairly silly, non-canon-compliant smut. I offer no apologies for the gratuitous Dune jokes and only regret that there was no plausible way to work in a gold lamé speedo. 2500 words, smut, no redeeming plot value whatsoever.

Tarsia is hot and arid. Stepping from the climate-controlled interior of the Castle of Lions feels like being hit, though the air is still and unmoving. Their paladin suits are flexible and can adjust to the most extreme conditions, but even so, Shiro can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead after a few moments in the Tarsian sun. 

"At least it's a _dry_ heat," Lance mutters, not quite under his breath. 

"Like that actually helps," Hunk mutters in reply.

It does help, in fact, though it's difficult to care much in the oven-like moment. Shiro leaves it be, however, because the Tarsians are coming forward to welcome them. They, of course, are adapted to this environment. They look a lot like Terran stick bugs to Shiro, tall and spindly. Desiccated. Even after all this time among alien species of broad and varied types, there's a certain amount of _ugh, yuck_ to repress when facing down a two-meter-tall bug, but quashing that is second nature by now. 

Shiro squares his shoulders and steps forward to greet the Tarsians.

The things he does for the Voltron coalition, honestly.

 

 

 

"Right," Pidge says later, after the initial round of discussions, once they're in the privacy of the Tarsian's ambassadorial quarters (and she's swept it for, uh, bugs). "Someone's got to say it: the spice must flow."

Hunk snorts, fanning himself briskly with a slip of the film that the Tarsians use for writing material. "Dune. Arrakis. Desert planet."

"Seriously, though, are we actually here because the coalition wants in on the Tarsian spice trade?" Lance says. "Seriously, is this actually happening? Because I want you all to know that if giant worms start showing up, I'm out. I'm not doing it, okay? I'm just not."

Shiro doesn't think any of them are expecting Keith to be the one to intone, "Fear is the mind-killer, Lance."

"Look, I really don't care if it is, because _giant worms_. I don't think my fear of them will be passing through me so much as _I_ would be passing through _them_ , and after that, I certainly would not remain, okay?" Lance retorts.

Keith sucks on his teeth and shrugs, conceding the point. "Okay, fair."

"I wouldn't worry about giant worms, paladins!" Coran's voice is tinny over the transmission to the castle-ship, now located in low orbit, but his manic energy comes through loud and clear. "Those are native to the fourth planet of the Tarsian system and the Tarsians rarely import them for sport anymore."

" _Rarely_ is not the same as _never_ ," Hunk points out. 

"Oh, pish posh, the Tarsians are preservationists these days, there's nothing to worry about," Coran assures them.

Great, Shiro thinks, already resigned now that Coran has jinxed them for sure. The way the rest of the paladins utter groans, they know it too. 

 

 

 

"Seriously, we really need to sit Coran down and explain Murphy's Law to him," Pidge pants. "This isn't funny anymore."

"You say that like you think it was ever funny to begin with," Hunk says.

"It was a rhetorical device, Hunk—shit, here it comes!" Pidge uses her bayard to launch herself into the air, out of the way of the giant sandworm the Tarsians had provided especially for their honor (and that no amount of diplomatic protestations had been able to refuse). The worm lunges after her flying form, distracted, and Lance and Hunk take their stances again to open fire on its underbelly.

The sandworm screeches angrily and flops away from Pidge. Lance and Hunk dive apart; as the sandworm chooses to go after Hunk, Shiro activates his bayard. There's a flash of a space where everything is limned in purple starlight, and he's on the sandworm's back. Keith arrives in nearly the same moment, one hand buried in Kosmo's ruff, and drives his bayard down between a gap in the sandworm's armored plates with all his strength. The sandworm screeches again, the sound deafening, and Kosmo blinks them away again. 

Shiro catches a hand on the ridge of one of the plates as the sandworm writhes and angles his bayard at the place where gouts of blue ichor are fountaining out of the hole Keith punched in its hide. The sandworm yaws, rearing up, and he has a disorienting moment to fire a blast of his own quintessence into the wound before he has to blink through the astral plane to escape. 

His landing isn't very graceful. He goes rolling across the sand, but it's better than being crushed under the rolling sandworm, so he's going to call it good.

Lance's rifle snaps again, paired with the lower thud of Hunk's cannon. The sandworm shrieks the sand beneath it churning to purple mud as it bleeds. Keith and Kosmo flash again, running up the sandworm's back, and he launches himself into space to drive his blade through one of the pocked bullet wounds. His weight drags the blade down, carving a huge gash into the sandworm's belly, before Kosmo flashes him away again. Lance and Pidge whoop, Hunk groans ("That is so _gross_!"), and Shiro raises his bayard to blast it again.

The sandworm screams, rearing off the sand and thrashing as Hunk and Lance take aim again, and crashes down heavily enough to make the ground shake. It doesn't move again.

The watching Tarsians cheer wildly.

The scene blurs; the sands change to a ring, the voices become a grating roar of Galra approval, and nausea churns Shiro's gut as the crowd cheers for the Champion yet again—

"Shiro." Keith's voice cuts through the noise of the chanting crowds, and Shiro's vision clears. The arena disappears and Keith stands at his shoulder, quiet and assured.

Shiro exhales, only a little shaky, and nods his acknowledgment. "Good job, team," he says, keeping his voice level mostly through willpower, and is quietly grateful that Keith shuffles unobtrusively closer in the subsequent round of greetings and praise from their hosts.

 

 

 

Tarsia's climate is arid, so it seems incongruous that their guest quarters contain luxurious bathing chambers with abundant water, but the cultural attaché who is assigned to their team explained that it was for the comfort of off-world guests accustomed to such pleasures. The bathing chambers certain are carefully sealed off to prevent the escape of all that moisture and resemble the facilities of Shiro's home culture closely enough that it gives him a pang of homesickness when he scrubs himself clean before slipping into the water to soak.

It helps ease the day's exhaustion, helps him release the tension of fighting and killing a being—thankfully non-sentient—for the sake of the spectacle it offered, helps him dismiss the specters of previous battles of that type. Probably he should have refused the fight, even though it had been meant for an honor, even if it might have meant insulting the Tarsians, but—it was done now, one more death to carry with him and to count on sleepless nights. 

Being morose isn't going to benefit him in the long run; Shiro shakes himself out of the urge to dwell on his should-haves and drags himself from the bath to seek a distraction. 

He finds it in the common area of their assigned quarters. Keith sits in one of the chairs, feet tucked under him. He's fresh from the bath, too, and has pulled the wet tangle of his hair up off his neck into an untidy bundle. His nape gleams pale and bare over the collar of his shirt, shocking the breath out of Shiro at the sheer vulnerability and intimacy of the sight. 

He doesn't think he makes a sound, but Keith turns to look at him anyway, wearing a faint smile. "Shiro," he starts, but then he seems to sense the effect he's had and he stops. His smile changes, softens, and he rises from his seat to come to where Shiro has paused on the threshold to the room. "Hey." He tips his head just a bit, looking at Shiro through his eyelashes. That trick shouldn't work now that they're nearly of a height, but it's Keith. He's always had a knack for the impossible. 

"Hey," Shiro replies. 

Keith's smile stretches a bit wider. "It's just you and me tonight," he notes, lifting a hand and placing his fingertips on Shiro's chest. "You think we can find something to do?"

Shiro draws a deep breath and covers Keith's hand with his own. "Please."

Keith must understand somehow, because he nods and flows the rest of the way into Shiro's space. He raises himself up the little way it takes; Shiro bends to meet him and allows himself to sink into their kiss, the softness of Keith's lips against his and the eager way Keith opens to him, welcoming the stroke of Shiro's tongue against his. 

Keith presses against him until Shiro has to cede ground to him, which is no hardship at all. Keith walks him back into his room and swipes the door closed behind them without having to look. For his part, Shiro is perfectly happy to kiss him again and again, to nibble the supple curve of his bottom lip and to taste the deeps corners of Keith's mouth as he runs his hands down the slim lines of Keith's back to settle at his hips. 

Keith utters a sound very close to a purr and cards his fingers through Shiro's hair, nails scraping over his scalp, as he continues to nudge them backwards, guiding them to the bed with delightful singlemindedness. Shiro allows it to happen, at least until he senses the furniture at his back. Then he tears himself away from Keith's mouth. "Clothes."

"What about them?" Keith says, but he's already sliding his hands under the hem of Shiro's shirt to push it up. Shiro helps him pull it off and returns the favor with Keith's shirt. Keith shoves his sleep pants down and grins when Shiro realizes that he wasn't wearing anything beneath them. "What? It's not like I had other plans for tonight."

"Punk," Shiro tells him, fond, and then Keith reaches for his hair. He sucks in a breath. "No, leave it up. Please."

Keith pauses, hands poised at the tangle of his hair, and his eyes go speculative. All he says is, "Okay," before reaching for Shiro's waistband and shoving it past his hips. "Looks like you didn't have any other plans either," he notes as he palms the filling length of Shiro's cock. 

"I guess not," Shiro rasps, pulling Keith to him again, skin to skin, so he can kiss the smirk off Keith's mouth.

Keith laughs and shoves him backwards onto the bed, following after him and straddling his hips. "You pack anything?"

"Have you met me?" Shiro retorts, a little offended that Keith would doubt him and his need to be prepared for any situation.

Keith laughs again, warm and full of affection, as Shiro retrieves the bottle from beneath a pillow. "I really do love you, you know that?" He stoops and seals their mouths together while Shiro is still reeling, stunned as always by how much courage Keith has. "I think you should fuck me."

"Okay," Shiro says, the only thing he _can_ say to that, before Keith kisses him again, fiercely, plundering his mouth and rocking against him. They groan together at the pressure and the grind; Shiro spills lube over his fingers and reaches down to open Keith up. 

Keith arches at the first press of Shiro's fingers, eyes half-shut and expression open and pleased. " _Yeah_ ," he says, pushing back against Shiro's fingers as Shiro works them into the heat of his body. "Yeah, God, Shiro…" It's like he's never heard of the concept of being self-conscious and he's absolutely glorious. 

This is going to go fast, Shiro thinks distantly as he twists his fingers inside Keith, who arches and groans, but that's fine. That's what he needs. He lets his fingers slip free, but before he can do anything else, Keith stops him. "Wait." He rolls away from Shiro and settles onto his knees and forearms. "Like this." His body describes a smooth arch from nape to ass, and Shiro groans at the sight. 

Then he shifts to his knees to follow Keith's lead. 

Keith really does know him better than he knows himself, sometimes. 

Keith arches his spine wantonly as Shiro grips his hips, leaning back into his hands, and _growls_ as Shiro sinks into him for the first time. He's so hot, so tight, that it steals Shiro's breath, makes it impossible to groans. Instead he leans forward and presses his mouth to Keith's nape, mouth open to taste the salt on Keith's skin. The movement grinds him that much deeper, sending a shudder of raw pleasure through him.

Keith groans and gropes for the hand Shiro has planted against the mattress by his head. He grips it. "Shiro," he says, breathless, "Shiro, _please_ —"

" _Yes_ ," Shiro breathes, reverent, and begins to move.

Keith groans, open and wanting, wordless sounds that urge Shiro on. He drives into Keith hard, mouthing his nape as each roll of his hips coils heat tighter at the pit of his stomach. Keith shudders under him, rocking back to meet him and twisting his free hand in the bed linens. When the sounds he's making turn urgent, Shiro reaches under him to stroke over the sleek heat of his cock. Keith arches and cries out, sharp, as he throbs against Shiro's fingers and wrings tight around Shiro's cock. 

Shiro gasps and shudders, pressing his forehead to the space between Keith's shoulder blades, and lets himself fall over the edge after Keith. Pleasure races over him, long shudders of sweetness that sweep everything else before them.

Keith groans after they subside and eases onto his side, taking Shiro with him. Shiro curls around him, breathing hard, and presses another kiss to Keith's nape… which is littered with rosy marks. Hmm.

Keith huffs softly. "So how good is it that I generally leave my hair down?"

"…pretty good, yeah," Shiro admits guiltily. 

Keith laughs at that. "Figured." He finds Shiro's hand and laces their fingers together. "I only wear it up for you anyway. 

Shiro closes his eyes at the rush of emotion. "Keith." He presses his lips to one of those marks gently. "I love you more than anything."

Keith hums to him softly and squeezes his fingers, but then, he already knew that.

 

 

 

Tarsia begins to recede behind them as the princess prepares to wormhole them away; when she does, everyone lets out a sigh of relief. 

"Well, that was fun," Pidge said. "Can the next planet not have giant sandworms, please? And maybe space chocolate?"

"Seconded," Hunk and Lance chorus.

"I'll see what I can do," Allura concedes, tolerantly amused since, giant sandworms notwithstanding, the mission was successful. 

Really, Shiro supposes they can't ask for anything more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always lovely!


End file.
